Goodbye and Keep Cold
by FloatingPizza
Summary: General Burkhalter is waiting on a train, and the hours are starting to wear on him.


The station was a quiet, out-of-the-way place, away from the main lines. There was no infrastructure in this town, no industry, and so there were few soldiers, few trains. The trains that did run came at irregular hours, not bound to any timetable, at the whim of larger railways. The lack of precision in the railways' timing was a thorn in the side of the German occupiers, as General Burkhalter could well attest. He felt he had been waiting a time, times, and half a time now for the evening train, and the hours were wearing on him, as was the miserable weather, and winter itself. He had seen over forty winters now and he was growing thoroughly sick of them.

Burkhalter coughed into a handkerchief and watched the rails, squinting through the snowflakes. He felt the small ice crystals catching in his eyebrows, on his ears, stinging his winter-pale skin with frozen teeth. He exhaled and his breath turned to a plume of smoke. He looked at his watch. _Late, late, always late. . ._

He looked down the tracks, trying to make out shapes through the haze. It was quiet. The air held a cold, familiar aroma, the scent of a low country in the grip of winter, the smell of arrested decay and frozen water. Blast it if the smell didn't remind him of the first war. Blast it if this whole situation didn't remind him of the first war. The tension, the solitude, the snow, it was all calling back the past.

It put him in mind of a short period of leave he took during those years, a time at his father's, the house he was raised in. It had been snowing lightly then for days, a slow-moving storm blown in from the west, and the garden was covered. Burkhalter remembered his riding boots, black against the white snow, and the way he had hesitated in the doorway, remembering it larger and the door wider, before his father had ordered him in and he obeyed on instinct.

The room had been cold, chilled by a draft, but a fire was kindled in the hearth, and his father stood before it with his broad back to the door. The memories of those first words of reunion were hazy, but Burkhalter well remembered the familiar distance, the protocol, that he had hoped the war would erase. He wanted his time in combat, little as it was, to mean something to the stoic veteran of the old wars, the heavy-faced enigma with the scar across his eyes.

Absentmindedly Burkhalter ran a thumb over his own scar and the cheekbone underneath. It was a dueling scar, ceremonially inflicted, and he had told himself he did it for the prestige, but at heart it was no more than another attempt to win his father's favor. At any rate it had backfired terribly, the old man looking upon the scar with contempt as something artificial and a mockery of his own. . . the younger Burkhalter recalled earning the dueling scar at the academy in early 1914, in the tense eager months before the war. The wound had healed to a slick red line by that winter, but still his father looked upon it coldly.

_Cold. . . _the general thought, squinting through the foreign clouds, looking for the sun. _Everything about that man was cold. _

One image, one instant, remained crystal in his memory.

His father standing before him. Shorter than he remembered, no less intimidating. Eyes like steel. A frigid snap to his voice. Two words - "Keep cold."

He had been speaking of military matters then, of spiritual isolation, of the need to kill emotion.

_Cold, cold, cold. . ._ how it had followed him through the years. How it _still _followed him.

Burkhalter glanced back at his guard before beginning to pace restlessly. That train was damning him. He didn't need this much time alone with himself, this much time to brood and let his thoughts chase themselves around in futile circles. He was going to lose either his resolution or his temper or both before it was all over.

He sighed again, blew the air out fiercely through his nostrils. Steam bloomed before his face. His breath might have been warm but his blood was cold. That much was certain. He had followed his father's advice, even though it took him months of mad conflict to come about. Burkhalter had come perilously close to shell shock once - just once - before he came to his senses and blocked it all out. Numbed himself to it. Gave something up. Froze over, froze through. And stayed that way.

Years later he had made a pact with his conscience when he saw the military rising at Hitler's heels, told it to remain silent, for he knew prestige would follow the one who forced his way to the top of the reborn army. He ignored the unease at the pit of his stomach and the alarms at the back of his mind, and when the conflict came he was ready. He turned the fire of war to ice within himself, watched the blitzkrieg with a frozen eye and kept his blood flowing cool through his veins. He killed the bloodlust, the passion, left the raw-throated anthems to others. No fire stirred in his heart, no passion lit his life. He did not deny himself, he was no ascetic, but inside he turned the emotions to ice and subjected all to the will of his mind. Through slaughter and torrent he kept himself sane, removed, and in control - or at least he maintained that illusion remarkably well.

Suddenly the train's whistle screeched from down the tracks, the sound ringing in the air.

Burkhalter's head snapped up and he backed away from the tracks, moving closer to his guard. The evening train melted in through the fog, black and boiling with smoke. People began to disembark. Burkhalter scanned the crowd, brows furrowed in concentration. Then his gaze caught something, froze.

_There you are._

A young man dressed in the navy-gray of the Luftwaffe, his long coat falling crisply to his ankles. A lieutenant's insignia. An open face. Clear hazel eyes, unclouded by fatigue or cynicism.

A new soldier, he was, and General Burkhalter's son.

The general swooped forward, his heels clicking as he walked. The crowd took one look at him and parted like mice before a hawk.

His son still hadn't seen him yet. He was just getting off the train, watching where he put his feet, being careful not to slip as he descended. It was an almost childlike display of concern. Burkhalter felt a surge of irritation and fondness. "Lieutenant Burkhalter!" he called. "Manfred!"

The boy's head jerked up in surprise. The general caught a flash of shock in his eyes, as was to be expected, and a flash of fear, also, unpleasantly, expected. They had parted with bad blood in Berlin.

Surprise outweighed animosity. Manfred made his way over. "Father," he saluted hesitantly.

"Son." Burkhalter answered and folded his arms behind his back.

A pause stretched between them. Manfred was uncomfortable with the silence. Burkhalter acted like he wasn't.

The boy finally spoke. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

Such a careful sentence. Burkhalter almost smiled. "I was in the area."

"Oh."

There was the silence again.

The general cleared his throat. "Unusual, your picking such a small railway. There are others that lead to the front much faster."

"Well, I, ah, I chose it for the view."

"The scenic route, then."

"Yes, sir."

"Odd that they let you travel alone. I was under the impression that even the Luftwaffe understood the value of mass transport, ignorant as they are."

The skin around Manfred's mouth tightened. He was idealistic, didn't appreciate the barb. Where he had gotten that idealism from, Burkhalter didn't know. Of course, Manfred was also somewhat handsome and reasonably trim, so there wasn't much explaining the boy.

"I finished training early, and they said they needed me. So I came."

"Needed you, hmm?"

Manfred shrugged. "The front's gotten so wide, we need every man we can get."

"True," Burkhalter said, looking at the boy. The sentence had a certain ring to it, a triteness uncharacteristic of his son. Manfred had heard it somewhere else, probably from one of the more experienced pilots at his base, and was repeating it to sound more worldly. Burkhalter doubted there was any real knowledge behind the statement.

Manfred had gotten over some of his shyness. He was starting to get that _look_ on his face, the stony, resigned one he was apt to wear when Burkhalter tried to talk sense to him.

It was against the general's nature to regret any of his actions, but he was beginning to see that insulting the Luftwaffe in front of Manfred had not been what one would call strategically ideal.

He tried another approach, said something about the lakes nearby, then the forests, coaxing words out of the boy. The conversation became easier, gradually. They spoke of safe things, simple things. How Potsdam looked from the air. How Mutti was getting on. The weather, of all things.

"This cold front, it's been making the skies lousy, so overcast. It does decrease the density altitude, though, so there's something to be said in its favor."

"Mmm. Yes. It has been cold."

"I - I've gotten better at landings. I haven't barked my tires since Tuesday, and I've been up a dozen times since then. And I met Gerd Barkhorn the other day - the ace, you know him? He's almost as good as Hartmann! They're - they're really pounding the Soviets out there."

Burkhalter looked at him neutrally. "So I've heard."

"Fighter wing 52 scored one hundred kills this past week."

"And how many of ours did the Russians get?"

" . . . I don't know."

"No. I didn't think you would."

"But nowhere near as many as we got of theirs, I'm sure!"

Burkhalter just grunted.

Manfred opened his mouth to say more but he couldn't put a voice behind the words. He bit his lip and glanced away, rubbing his arms.

A heavy silence descended, again, with the snow muffling all sound. Manfred's cheeks were flushed and he was looking anywhere but his father's face.

_He's embarrassed over that outburst. _Burkhalter thought. _He idolizes those blasted fighter aces. Always has. _

A sense of near-regret came creeping over him again. In his memory he saw a heavy, scarred face, hard gray eyes narrowed with disdain, and he wondered if he was remembering his father or the reflection he had seen in the mirror that morning.

It came to him then, suddenly. He had been denying it, trying desperately to banish the thought before it could come full-formed to mind, but he had failed. He had been failing all day. He had lied to Manfred. He had not "been in the area." He had driven here from Berlin after two sleepless nights and countless phone calls to stationmasters and squadron leaders. He had left his office, shirked his duties, deserted his staff and superiors, to come pace restless beside these tracks for hours, waiting for one last chance to make things right.

He had come here, to the outpost at the end of the world, hoping to heal scars.

Burkhalter took a breath. "Manfred?"

His son met his eyes and a thousand burning questions, a thousand things unsaid came searing through his mind. _Why didn't you stay in the army. Your face has gotten thinner than before. Why didn't you keep that desk job I gave you. Your mother's been worried sick. Why did you go join the Luftwaffe and make friends with men who hate me. You deserve better than this. __Why did you seal yourself off from me like some phenomenally ignorant martyr. __  
_

"Manfred, I -"

The train's whistle blew.

Burkhalter broke off, abruptly aware of the pounding of his pulse, the constant measured passing of instants.

Manfred looked toward the train, hesitant.

Burkhalter's eyes fell to his watch. His heart throbbed harsh in his chest. _Late, late, always late. . . _

He felt like his chest was going to cave in.

A stream of people began to move past them, never jostling, always polite. Removed. Afraid.

Manfred turned back. "Well," he started, then coughed, his eyes blinking quickly. "I guess this is it."

Burkhalter nodded. He didn't trust his voice.

They were saying goodbye at the edge of the dark, at the mouth of the abyss. The black depths of the future, of a rising war and a vanishing son, threatened to send Burkhalter reeling. He reached out a hand to Manfred's shoulder, to keep himself steady. He felt the boy tense under his grip. A bolt of pain went through him. He forced himself to speak past the catch in his throat.

"Son, be careful."

"Yes, sir."

"Manfred."

"Sir?"

"Enough of all that."

"Oh, yes- sure, Dad, sure."

Burkhalter's throat was on fire. He nodded again. They stood there for a minute more, trying to deny time.

When the last few passengers started boarding and the tension of imminent departure filled the air, Burkhalter forced his arm away, let it fall beside him like a leaden weight. Behind them the train rumbled, its massive shape lurking in the gloom.

Manfred swallowed, then held out a hand. "Goodbye, Dad."

They shook. "Farewell," Burkhalter managed.

"I'll write. As much as I can."

"Please do."

"I'll make you proud, Dad."

"You already have," Burkhalter said quietly.

Manfred blinked, then slowly started to smile. He looked back at the train, then starting walking, starting leaving, but the smile was genuine and it stayed, and just before boarding he turned back around and called goodbye again.

Burkhalter watched as his son boarded the train, watched his face as long as he could see it, etching the boy's features onto the wall of his memory. He watched as the train pulled away, steam pouring from its pipes, steam being lost in the snowfall, train disappearing in the distance, gray haze swallowing shadow and shape. He watched it until the stress of obscurity threatened his vision and colorless sparks swam before his eyes, making his temples throb. He took a step backwards and shook his head. It was too much, too much...

The train whistle screamed like a wounded thing.

Burkhalter flinched at the noise and felt a sudden coldness just above his scar. He reached a hand up and found water cascading down his cheek like icemelt.

* * *

_Title and inspiration from Robert Frost's poem "Goodbye and Keep Cold." _


End file.
